CHAPTER FOUR
Jessie was as annoyed as her rideshare driver was anxious.
When he prepared to drop her off near the crime scene a half hour later, he seemed nervous about all the emergency vehicles on the street. So, she had him pull over a half block away, and then walked the rest of the way.
Ryan had driven her to her appointment with Dr. Lemmon on his way into HSS, so she had no car. Her original plan had been to take a rideshare into work after she was done, but instead it had taken her to Windsor Square, a small but historic neighborhood about twenty minutes from downtown.
As she got closer, Jessie saw Karen Bray waiting in the front yard of the victim’s home. Karen was a veteran detective who’d had transferred to HSS from Hollywood Station after working a case with Jessie a few years ago and hitting it off.
At 39, she was seven years Jessie’s senior.
Petite and self-effacing, she dressed casually and wore her dirty blonde hair in a ponytail.
She had an unflappable air of professionalism to go with her keen sense of perception.
In addition, she was the only team member with a child, a 6-year-old named Calvin.
Jessie often suspected that it was dealing with him that led to her constant no-nonsense attire.
“How’s it going?” Jessie asked once she reached the front yard.
“Oh, you know, same old, same old,” Karen said. “Husband spilled coffee on his shirt at breakfast. Son spilled orange juice on my shirt at breakfast. Got to the station to find Captain Parker up in arms. Ordered to come here before I even had a chance to sit down. Busy morning.”
“That’s a lot,” Jessie agreed. “What was Parker so upset about?”
“Stuff we can’t control. Everyone else in the unit was working a case when this one came in. She said that you were ‘unavailable,’ which was announced with disdain. She was complaining that the department needs to up the funds so we can bring in another detective.”
Jessie shook her head in disbelief. “The city budget includes cuts across the board. Did she really think HSS would be immune? The only reason we haven’t lost a detective is because Chief Decker used to run Central Station and views our unit as his baby. We’re lucky to still have everyone.”
“You’re husband mentioned that to her when she was going off about it,” Karen said. “The comment wasn’t well-received.”
“No surprise there,” Jessie said. “I’ve actually recommended that in lieu of a new detective, we push to have a uniformed officer assigned permanently to HSS. There would be tons of volunteers. Devery would think Christmas had come early if he got to join us.”
Devery was Officer Harper Devery, a rookie cop based out of Central Station who had told Jessie directly that he’d specifically requested assignment to their station so that he could eventually work his way up to HSS.
“Well, she wasn’t in much a of suggestion-accepting mood, especially considering the victim.”
“What can you tell me about her?” Jessie asked. “Or should we have the officer in charge brief me.”
“That would be Sergeant Delco,” Karen said. “He’s coordinating with the crime scene folks right now. But he already gave me a rundown on the basics. You want them?”
“Please.”
“Her name is Lauren Mitchell,” Karen said. “The reason Parker was so agitated is that she’s a well-known realtor, like minor-celebrity level.”
“A celebrity realtor?” Jessie asked, unfamiliar with the concept.
“She does a lot social media stuff,” Karen explained. “Quippy videos making fun of the houses she’s pitching, as well as herself. Counting TikTok, Insta, and YouTube, she has over 8 million followers. I actually follow her myself. She is—was really funny.”
“I guess I’m just out of the loop,” Jessie conceded. “So, what happened?”
“According to the medical examiner’s preliminary evaluation, she was killed yesterday evening, likely sometime between 6 P.M. and midnight.
She was found in the living room with her throat slit.
But according to the M.E., she was almost certainly tased before that.
They found small puncture marks that had penetrated the skin on her lower back, along with light burns they think came from the electrical contact.
She also had facial bruising consistent with a fall, likely after losing body control from the tasing. ”
Jessie let that sink in for a moment. If the M.E. was correct, then she’d been tased, and while incapacitated from that but still conscious, had her throat cut. It was a brutal way to go.
“Who found her?” she asked, feeling angry tension grip her like a python starting to squeeze. She exhaled deeply, trying to prevent the feeling from escalating.
“Her husband,” Karen said. “Name is Jason Mannix. I haven’t spoken to him yet. But according to the first officers on the scene, he said that he had just returned from a business trip in San Diego. Apparently, he drove back super early to avoid traffic.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sergeant Delco put him and an officer in his study until we’re ready for him,” Karen said. “Do you want to talk to him now?”
“Soon,” Jessie said. “But let’s see the body first.”
Karen nodded and led the way. As they walked up the path, Jessie couldn’t help but admire the Craftsman-style house. Even though it was a fairly modest, one-story home, Jessie knew that was deceptive.
The place, like many in this historic neighborhood, could have been as much as 130 years old. But it was in pristine condition, not a shocker considering how much of a priority a realtor like Mitchell would put on maintaining it. Jessie guessed it was worth at least $3 million.
They took the steps to the porch, where an officer stood guard.
Karen must have already flashed her badge and ID because he let them inside without asking for anything.
The detective led her from the foyer down a long hallway that split into a “Y.” Jessie saw that one direction led to the kitchen.
Karen went the other way, into the expansive living room.
Jessie knew where Lauren Mitchell was based on the crowd surrounding her off to the right. For now, she ignored that, choosing to look elsewhere for clues before the enormity of the murder consumed all her attention.
But there wasn’t much to see. Nothing in the room looked askance. No broken vases. No family photos knocked off the mantle. No overturned coffee tables. It seemed that Mitchell never even had a chance to fight back.
“What’s that smell?” she asked, noting the distinct scent of paprika and tomato sauce.
“There was dinner on the kitchen counter,” Karen said. “Some kind of bean casserole or something.”
“Okay.” Jessie said quietly. “Let’s go see her.”
Karen nodded and took the lead. As they approached, the crime scene folks all stepped aside to let them pass. Jessie stopped and looked down at the woman, who was lying on her back.
She guessed that Lauren wasn’t much older than her, likely in her early thirties.
She had medium-length brown hair and matching eyes, which were currently wide open.
She was dressed in a t-shirt and yoga pants.
That, along with the meal on the counter, suggested that she’d been home long enough to change and get comfortable for the evening.
But she wasn’t comfortable. Along with the vacant eyes and the facial bruising that Karen had mentioned, her throat had been cut clean across. Blood formed a pool that surrounded her upper body and had flowed across the hardwood floors and under the nearby sofa.
Jessie felt a new tension rise in her chest. But unlike before, she welcomed it in and let it stay.
This time, it wasn’t the vengeful desire to eliminate whoever had done this.
Rather, it was the impotent rage that came from knowing she might not be able to find the person responsible.
That fury both fueled her and filled her with self-doubt.
She had to bring Lauren Mitchell justice, but wasn’t sure she could.
She looked up at Karen.
“Let’s talk to the husband.”